


maybe he won't find out

by sorrycas



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Gen, M/M, Peterick, Stalking, Underage - Freeform, band au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 16:18:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2474543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrycas/pseuds/sorrycas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete stalks this kid, and it's wrong, maybe, but he can't stop doing it. He can't win it all, but maybe he could have a window into a pretty kid's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	maybe he won't find out

**Author's Note:**

> tw: stalking. if you have a problem with that, please don't read this.

Pete stalks this kid, and it's wrong, maybe, but he can't stop doing it. He can't win it all, but maybe he could have a window into a pretty kid's life.

And the reason why he doesn't catch on for so long is that, well, Pete starts slowly.

First, Pete went out for a cigarette one evening at 6:01 PM, and a pudgy kid lugging like, three guitars and a bass with him catches Pete's eye. Pete has no idea how the kid is managing it, but he's got one instrument slung out on his front and one strapped to his back and he's holding the other two guitars out to his sides carefully. Why anyone would need two acoustics, Pete has no clue. He watches the kid waddle-shuffle to the door roughly diagonally across the street from Pete's latest girlfriend's house, and it didn't occur to Pete that he should have offered help until the kid narrowly misses the doorway twice before successfully making it in. In fact, Pete just stood there and watched, and blew an occasional smoke ring.

Then, Pete goes out for a round of chain-smoking at exactly 6:06 PM, and watches the kid come home; he'd probably been coming home from some sort of band practice. Pete gets really good at smoke rings, and convinces himself that he's starting to form weird routines, and that this new habit has absolutely nothing to do with the kid. Pete and his girlfriend are in stormy waters. Pete tries not to get anxious about breaking this little... routine.

Pete now uses the smoking as a vague shield and meager excuse for watching the kid; he's been staying out longer an longer, and it is easy to blame that on the declining of Pete and his girlfriend's relationship. He holds a cigarette between chapped lips to keep up the illusion; Pete doesn't really quite like smoking anymore, and his lips seem permanently rounded from thousands of shitty smoke rings, and forever sour from going through three-fourths of a pack a day for the last month. Pete rolls the fag in his mouth, which tastes like chemicals and soap. It's soggy and gross, but Pete keeps rolling it in his mouth, anyways. He pretends the flick imaginary ash off of it, sometimes, just for something to do as he watches the kid shuffle back and forth behind his window. Once, Pete had the luxury of watching the kid mowing the lawn; today, Pete sees the kid with a determined set to his shoulders and a massive blue bucket with soapy water sloshing down the sides -- today, the kid's washing a car. Pete watches until the cigarette falls apart in his mouth, and the kid goes home damp and grimly victorious. Pete gets in his car without saying goodbye to his girlfriend.

He never meant for it to start happening; it just did. The dew clings to the hem of his dark skinny jeans, and it really should be the most boring thing in the world: Pete is crouched behind a tree, staring at a dimly-lit window as if he's watching the most riveting thing. When a shadow passes, he can feel his pulse bouncing on his neck, but nothing ever happens. It's so fucking anti-climatic, but Pete thinks it's better than fucking sex, sometimes -- tingles shoot down his back, and he feels like he could shake out of his skin. He holds his breath when the shadow pauses by the window thoughtfully -- there's a reckless side of him dying to be caught, to be punished, because, okay, Pete knows this is wrong no matter how hard he tries not to think about it. But a small part of him hopes and hopes and hopes, and Pete's not always entirely sure what for, but sometimes it makes his heart feel so big that it's going to burst out of his chest.

The light turns off. Pete waits a minute -- this secret has taught him to be so, so patient -- and gets up, and walks to his car, which is parked a block away, because Pete and his girlfriend have now broken up. Pete keeps glancing back hopefully, and he sits down in his car and lean his head back and grins like an idiot at the ceiling, with too big teeth and too wide lips. He's been more on time for this than any date he's ever been on.

Eventually, Pete gets a morning shift at the corner coffee shop, because the kid shows up there every morning before school. It makes sense, with how fucking late the kid stays up -- the earliest Pete's ever left was 2 AM. Usually he's there right when the sky begins to lighten into that velvety blue.

Anyways, Pete finds out about the regular trips to the shitty coffee shop when he falls asleep in the car, and the kid walks past with like, a billion books, and today, in a trucker hat that mats his mousy reddish-brown hair to his forehead. He doesn't start his car until the kid crosses the street, and he cruises sort of slowly, trying not to look too odd, until he turns into the parking lot that has more weeds than cars. The kid navigates through the stubborn grasses without stumbling even once.

So Pete waits until the kid leaves with a steaming cup of coffee, walking with a diligent pace, step-step-step, and Pete resists following him to get a job.

Unfortunately, he can't be a cashier, but there's a spot open for busboys.

So, Pete learns the beautiful art of soaking rags, wiping down round, sticky tables, how to carry a lot of mugs without breaking any, and how to wash all of them without a whole bottle of soap, all for minimum wage and being in the same room with some kid for five minutes. It's quite funny to be a successful millionaire clothing designer but also a minimum wage worker at a shitty coffee shop.

Pete sighs at the loss of experiencing more of the kid's all-nighters -- well, necessary evils must be taken, and sacrifices must be made. Pete couldn't win all of them.

But the kid brushes past him one day, and murmurs an apology, and Pete could literally soar.

Pete doesn't get to hear the kid's voice -- he speaks in sleep-slow, gruff mumbles in the morning, and the guy serving the kid seems to know him well enough just to serve him whatever the fuck and leave him alone. Pete's supposing the kid isn't a morning person and smiles. Pete wouldn't normally be a morning person, either.

Pete begins a new routine of waiting outside of the kid's school in his car, and replies to emails on his phone.

Pete decides to follow the kid to his friend's house, where they practice with the garage door closed. It's muffled, and missing bass, but pretty good. The singer is breathy and catches Pete completely off guard. His chest feels tight and, god, he really wasn't expecting a band with a high schoolers in it to have that good a singer -- maybe a whiny girl, or a boy trying his hand at screaming.

He follows the band's van to a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. Pete watches three guys lug out equipment, and the kid do his magical carrying-a-lot-of-things-at-once thing -- maybe it's some sort of talent. He decides to risk being caught and leaves his car, walking quietly in the dark, avoiding the pools of light the streetlamps pour onto the street. The kid's steps slow, and he turns around, suddenly, and Pete manages to slam him against the filthy brick wall in the nick of time. Pete swallows; the kid clears his throat.

"Is anyone there?" the kid asks, his voice shaking just that little bit at the end. Pete wants to turn himself in, but he keeps himself against the wall, feeling his pulse bouncing erratically against the brick.

"Hello?" the kids says next, and Pete sighs -- he's almost in the clear. The kid's eyebrows furrow in doubt, and he hesitates.

The kid's voice was a lot prettier than Pete was expecting -- it wasn't deep, but had this sort of melodic, tinny timber that sort of caught on the edges. When the kid shrugs to himself and starts walking away, Pete realizes.

The kid is the singer.

And he stays pressed against the wall, quietly impressed, and quite possibly, that's when Pete falls in love.

He quietly lets himself into the coffee shop, and orders an expresso, even though it's 10 PM. The kid is shuffling around on the little stage, and Pete grins, because one day, this kid is going to make it big, and Pete can't wait to watch that, too.

The kid wrings his hands behind his back, the trucker hat covering his eyes; and Pete can properly see his milky skin, the softness of his body, the sideburns down to his chin, the natural pinkness of his lips as he sings about music and misery and false hopes. The lyrics are okay, but the kid really makes it up (and then some) with the way he belts out the words, as if he really believed in whatever shit he was going on about. The kid could be singing about how Hitler really was a friendly person, and Pete's sure that people would at least listen because of how pretty his voice is.

The next morning, Pete realizes the coffee shop guy who serves the kid is the guitarist from the kid's band. Joe's his name, or something. The kid and the cof -- Joe -- are arguing about something in whispers, and really, now that Pete knows how the kid really sounds like, the groggy mumbling really doesn't do him justice. Pete focuses on their conversation, but can't hear anything properly. He moves to the table closer to them, even though he's already cleaned that table.

"Hey, Pete," says someone, and Pete figures it must be Joe.

He turns around. "Yeah?"

Joe sighs, and the kid looks mildly annoyed. "Know any bassists?"

"Yeah," says Pete. He chews his lip thoughtfully. "Actually, I play bass. Why?"

"We need a bassist," says Joe, and the kid gives Joe a look. "For, uh, our band."

"Sign me up," says Pete without missing a beat, grinning. He tries to tone down his grin a little, because he doesn't want all his secrets to spill out of his smile.

"Here," the kid says, "come to my house, and I'll try you out."

"Okay," Pete says. By the time his shift ends, he's got directions to a house he's been to more often than his own house the last few months.

He shows up at 6:39 PM, pacing on the pavement a block over because he's breaking routine, holy shit. Then he walks over, and lies that he parked his car a block away and got lost (not because he was used to parking a block away and walking over because he didn't want to get caught.) The kid is wearing an argyle sweater, shorts, black socks, and a trucker hat. Pete smiles behind his hand, and then proffers it to the kid.

"I'm Pete," Pete says. The kid smiles, and that's pretty, too -- his lips pull over straight white teeth that's perfectly sized, nothing like the teeth that are too big for Pete's mouth.

"Patrick," says the kid, and how fitting, a soft name for a pretty kid. "Welcome to the band."

And maybe, maybe, Pete won't just be watching anymore. He supposes he's over just watching, anyways.


End file.
